Injustice
by Crazyaspie
Summary: Jason saves Skull from their perverted gym coach, only to find out that society is a crueler monster than Rita could ever come up with. Creative writing exercise. Recently proof-read and updated. Rated M for adult situations, minor cursing, and implied rape.
1. A Red Ranger

**Injustice**

**Chapter 1.**

Everywhere I look, I see red. Blood is red as it splashes my knuckles, spraying smaller drops across my arm - it tastes red; smells red. Baldo's hair is red, as I grab a fistful of it and pull, hearing him scream in a high-pitched way; like a dying animal. Rage is red as it fills my vision, burning inside me as I twist his arm, and his shoulder, and his neck. A blush is red, rising to Skull's cheeks as he yells when flying droplets of the remains of Coach Baldo's nose pepper his shoes. I am red. I am the Red Ranger, sworn to protect human life and yet unable to stop myself from taking it.

Although a part of me is sick thinking about how easily my teacher's face crumbled, I feel no remorse. To the contrary, I feel satisfied in a way that is indescribable. The knowledge that I can do this to a man is as exhilarating as it is terrifying; the knowledge that I _had_ to is what sobers me.

My stomach empties itself as the weight of the situation hits me. I can still see it in my mind: Skull, his head pulled back as Baldo yanked on his hair, holding onto the railing for whatever support it could give him as the much larger, older man moved against him. I can hear his whimpering. It plays through my head on loop, turning my insides into a million different knots. I'm trying to make it stop, but it just doesn't leave me. When my head has cleared, I manage to look at Skull for the first time since I charged his attacker. He's pulled his pants back up, but his bandana is nowhere to be found. His belt is lying on the ground near a pool of blood. I reach out, to comfort him. His hair is slick with sweat as I pet it. His face is blank; his eyes empty. He's staring at Baldo, but I don't think he actually sees him.

Since freshman year, Eugene Skullovitch has been the least aggressive of a pair of leather clad punks who enjoy tormenting me and my friends. Although there's always a part of me that's happy when their bullying backfires spectacularly, there's also the part of me that fears for his well-being whenever a monster steps out from the shadows of the moon. He is a child, if nothing else. I'm supposed to protect children.

"You okay?" I ask.

He pulls his gaze from Baldo to me only to quickly find the corner of the floor. He can't look at me. In fact, he shuffles away from me, drawing his knees up to his chin. Is he afraid? I don't have time to ponder this. The distant wail of a siren pierces the silence. We both look around, instinctively knowing that the police are coming for me but not knowing who called them. When our eyes reconnect, Skull doesn't look away this time.

"Please. Bulk can't know," he whispers.

I'm confused. Skull scrambles to his feet, not bothering to explain before his flight.


	2. An Angry Liar

**Injustice**

**Chapter 2.**

The officer's name is Smith. He's a good man, trying to do his job and bring a criminal to justice. I can't hate him for it, even though he thinks that criminal is me. No, my anger is directed at Skull. I should be here describing my heroics, not defending myself. To weave a more bulletproof lie, I tried working elements of the truth into it. If I slip up, I can just claim that I saw red, or can't remember clearly. It seems to have worked so far. My brain is just _so_ messed up over this whole thing.

I find the tale to be plausible; Smith eyes me cautiously.

"So he attacked you and you struck him in defense?" He asks. I nod, again. He thinks this over, then asks me the question I'm not prepared for: "What reason would he have to attack you?"

"He—" how can I say this where they would understand? "—he grabbed my penis."

That doesn't seem to go over too well. Smith stares at me, trying to reconcile the boy he sees in front of him with the lies that I'm telling. As flattering as it is frustrating, he is unwilling to accept the possibility that _I_ am the victim of a "sexual molestation." Not at this age, not in this body. He clicks his pen against some paper on his desk. It isn't too much longer that the door opens, and a pretty blonde brings in a red bandana that's been neatly tucked into a plastic bag. My breath catches in my throat.

"Who was the girl in the room with you?" He asks, brandishing the evidence bag like a sword.

"Girl?"

A second bag hits the table. This one containing a slender belt. I feel a bubbling inside of me as a numbness begins settling, anger being replaced with a sense of defeat. If my story unravels now, then I'm just the kid who attacked his teacher and lied about it. Can I get jail for that? Do sixteen-year-old's get jail?

"Now, you might convince me that this bandana is yours, but you're about three sizes too big for this belt," he sounds victorious. "Maybe you caught Mr. Baldo doing something with your girlfriend, and flipped out?"

Dammit. He's so close. I find that squeezing my palm seems to help my nerves, but it does nothing to ease the hatred I'm beginning to feel for Skull. I was fed to the sharks, even after saving his sorry little butt.

Sorry, poor choice of words.

"I don't know," I finally say. "Maybe I'm not the only kid he attacked?"

Smith clicks his pen again, an unbeliever. "You know, they've got this thing now where we can use hair and spit to pull DNA. I just need a sample."

He presents me with a Q-tip. It goes into my mouth. When he's gotten enough spit, they pluck a hair from my head with some tweezers. He leaves afterward. I sit in confusion for a moment, staring at the empty table where the evidence had been resting. I'm free to go. I think over everything I said, trying to find any flaws. I fixate on a red bandana. Realization dawns on me.


	3. A Criminal Child

**Injustice**

**Chapter 3**

The hallways of Angel Grove high school have never seemed so empty before. I know every face, have seen them every day of my life practically, but I don't recognize them. The looks they give me, the whispers behind my back. It isn't the way I thought it would be. They had semen from the crime scene, had a few more kids come forward, and several teacher's submitting statements about how I'm a good kid, an _honest _kid. But still, there's a venomous doubt. I'm not a poor, coddled victim; in their eyes, I'm sort of deviant myself.

The things they say are as hurtful as they are wrong. I'm not the type of guy that has those sorts of problems. I'm gay. Baldo has a wife and kid; how could I do _this_ to them? I'm gay. I'm just an alpha-male feeling threatened by a masculine authority figure. **I'm gay. **The football team hates me. The wrestler's won't even nod in my direction, anymore. Mr. Caplan wonders if I'm seeking attention. They all lord it as undeniable fact. Rumors, personal discrimination, being treated as tangible evidence that I'm lying.

But, worst of all, some think it is _funny_. They are laughing at me. They are laughing at the idea of somebody raping me. The fact that I actually wasn't touched no longer matters. My character has been dragged through the mud; my name passed from condescending mouth to judgmental ear. I feel betrayed. I feel like punching their faces until I'm holding the squishy grey matter beneath their skulls, then laughing at their pain until my voice is as broken as they are. As broken as I'm beginning to fear that _I_ am.

Skull hands me a cigarette. At least, I think it's a cigarette. Actually, looking at it closer, it's not a cigarette. It smells weird; it tastes weird. I hand it back, coughing out some sweet flavored smoke. Skull smiles, raising his eyebrows as he snuffs it out on the side of the concrete wall. He sits there, nearly on my shoulder as I stand beside him. He looks like a Tim Burton version of John Lennon, with his round sunglasses, civil war jacket, and skull-patterned stretch pants; bright yellow boots notwithstanding. We watch some kids skateboarding in the distance, trying not to mention the event we came here to talk about.

"It's actually better this way," Skull says, nonchalantly lighting up another dubious cigarette.

"How's that?" I ask, trying not to sound bitter. There's a part of me that wishes I'd just walked away and let him fight his own battle. He hasn't exactly been grateful. "I'm being treated like a criminal."

"Oh yeah?" Skull giggles. Apparently, he thinks my frustration is humorous. "I _am_ a criminal! If it were me, they wouldn't have checked for splooge. They wouldn't have even taken my statement."

The silence is thick between us after that. I want to say he is being dramatic, but it's probably the truth. If they can paint me as illicit with a palette as clean as mine was, imagine what they'd make of Skull. Skull, whose parents ride motorcycles, and wear as many spikes and leather as their son. Skull, whose father has been to jail as many times as he's been to one of Skull's birthday parties. Skull, whose status as a juvenile delinquent somehow makes him immune to victimization.

I don't have the heart to tell him they have his bandana.


End file.
